Endless Forms Most Beautiful
by nevermoore97
Summary: Molly's role in Sherlock's "fall" has not been overlooked this time around and this time, it seems logical to get rid of her first. But both Sherlock and Moriarty alike still underestimate the young pathologist. It turns out that in fact, Molly Hooper is one of the greatest mysteries of all, and is only just figuring out how that is. Orphan Black Style AU Spoilers for HLV
1. Natural Selection

**This author thought she could do this without an author's note and discovered that the temptation was too strong.**

**Hi! I'm new and as for my name, I could never resist a pun. This is just something that I've been wanting to write for a long time; Sherlock characters in an Orphan Black AU. For those who haven't watched Orphan Black, don't worry this will be easy to follow, and yes I'm mixing things up in order to suit my spin better AND to prevent spoilers. This is actually quite exciting. Hopefully, I shall update on a weekly or bi-weekly basis.**

**I do not own Sherlock, Orphan Black, or the works of Charles Darwin (from which the title is derived) don't sue me, all you'll get is my dog.**

Felix's hands shook as he took the blood stained clothes and personal effects from the sympathetic morgue attendant (he was cute, _definitely _his type). He signed off on them, his signature veering slightly, only straying to take a peek at them when he was sitting on a bus, already well on its way to Brixton. A dress, a pair of shoes, a bag with her wallet, phone, and a few files from work. When this was done, he leaned back in his seat, dialing the number scrawled down hastily by his friend before she left—before she died. A man with an Irish lilt Felix only knew too well answered.

"Hello?"

"You bloody bastard, she actually did it. M-Molly's dead." It was then that he broke down, crying as James Moriarty hung up, getting strange looks from the others on the train as he tried to conceal it.

* * *

No one knew precisely what caused Molly Hooper to throw herself in front of an oncoming train in the tubestation.

John thought it was because she did exhibit signs of depression beforehand.

Her coworkers (primarily the nurses and interns) thought it was because of her failed engagement.

Mike Stamford thought it was because Moriarty had returned only twenty-four hours ago and she couldn't handle it.

Sherlock…Sherlock didn't know precisely what he thought (incredibly rare, he was aware) as he stood there, staring at the mangled body of Molly Hooper, the sheet taken down enough to show her face, but without sacrificing modesty. Lestrade had already made the identification and her friend had already been by to pick up the clothes and other personal items. Sherlock didn't know why he was there—how he got there required a trip in his mind palace to figure it out, it was all completely without thought—except to see that Molly Hooper really and truly was dead. Somehow, Sherlock was having trouble computing this knowledge, when something so straightforward was usually meant with instantaneous processing. It was definitely her face, though marred with new cuts from being thrown on the tracks; it was definitely her body structure, though maimed by impact. Unless Molly had a twin—doubtful as she was an only child with a loving family, deceased as well—then there was no doubt that Molly Hooper, Sherlock's pathologist and trusted friend, was lying on the cold slab before him.

Molly was dead and the last thing he said to her was much more than a bit not good.

* * *

12 Hours Before

Molly Hooper sat in her best friend's flat again, drinking red wine while Felix painted her, completely in shades of red. What had he called it? A _monochrome, _yes that was it, Molly wasn't an artist, so she didn't have that firm grasp on all the terms for everything. Then again, she doubted that Felix could name every single bone and muscle in the hand, let alone the entire body. He didn't even know what ligaments were. She smiled. She missed having evenings like this. But between her shifts and Felix's less dignified day job, she couldn't get to the flat above a chop shop as much as she would have liked. There was nothing quite like watching the tattooed and pierced out newcomers raising eyebrows at the little woman in the sunshine yellow jumper dashing up the stairs on her way to a gay male prostitute's residence. It was sad, but her friendship—they were almost like siblings—was the only lasting relationship she could lay claim to. Everyone else came and went, but Felix never left her.

"Molly, if you don't tell me what's causing that silly frown right this instant, I'm going to become very cross with you." Felix sat beside her, flicking her nose with a paint coated finger.

She shook her head, trying to focus on what she was there for, rubbing the red from her nose before she forgot about it and made an absolute fool of herself. It wasn't to be sad and it wasn't to reminisce. It was to try to figure out what to do, "Felix…do you remember that detective I told you about?"

"Sherlock Holmes? Easy on the eyes? Complete bastard? Has a slower resurrection than Jesus, but a little more permanent?" Felix ticked it off as if he were on a game show, having obviously not seen how upset Molly really was.

"Yeah…."

"What about him?"

She hadn't told her of her involvement in Sherlock's seeming miraculous return and she supposed that this wasn't exactly a brilliant time to bring it up, "An—an enemy of his is back." She shuddered, remembering that man, that horrible, horrible man that blew up old ladies and—no past, that definitely won't be happening again.

"Moriarty, the psycho Irishman and your—"

"Don't finish that." Molly snapped, dropping the glass and covering her face as it shattered, "S-sorry."

The glass went ignored, "What's wrong, Molly?"

"I—I sort of talked to him—to J—I mean Moriarty. He…he uh knows that…I am a friend of Sherlock's…an actual proper friend." Felix didn't need to know about it after all.

"WHAT?! What did he say, what does he want with you?"

"I—I have to—to kill myself."

"Absolutely—absolutely not—that's fucking mad, do you understand? You—"

"He says if I don't—he's going to kill you and he's going to blow up an office building…that's so many people Felix…so many people. I'm your only connection to Sherlock Holmes so if I'm gone he'll lose interest and—"

"Molly! NO!" Molly decided that the rest of their discussion would be on the streets, exchanged in whispers, wary of strangers, no matter how harmless they appeared. For if Moriarty knew her dear friend Felix, he would no doubt be above placing a few bugs in his flat.

* * *

Two hours after

It was child's play getting into Molly's flat—he almost considered reminding Molly to get better locks before he realized that she never would be able to—and after the note, he knew he could only try to figure out the puzzle Moriarty wanted him to solve—that is, without Moriarty knowing that Molly gave him an edge. Even now, James Moriarty underestimated Molly Hooper. To think, he probably thought that in getting rid of her, he was getting rid of one of Sherlock's advantages…which was true to an extent. However, Sherlock was also angry, oh incredibly angry, a rage that he never felt before at the thought of Molly…stiff…unmoving….FOCUS.

He found her laptop and used the password she had written (clever, unexpected) to get into her computer, opening one of the video files on her laptop.

Suddenly Molly was there—well not really, but it was a sort of relief to watch her twisting her hair nervously about her fingertip before speaking, adjusting the camera to make sure it was right.

"So…uhm…hi…I suppose. I'm sorry; I don't really know how to make these. I suppose not having much experience making suicide notes is a good thing…heh." Molly gave a short abrupt laugh, "Well uhm I suppose not much is funny to whoever's watching this, I've never been good at making jokes. I just—well Sherlock it's probably you watching this! Hi!" She ran a hand through her hair—nerves, exhaustion, stress, pain, fear—"I'd like you to know that…I'm not everything you think I am…I have never been. I—I don't need you. And Felix, dear? You'll be fine without me. So…that's it…goodbye."

The clip ended and left Sherlock clueless.

* * *

10 hours before.

Molly shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked up at the cameras around her, sure that someone—Mycroft most likely, would see the horrifying events that would come to pass—that is unless she did it out of sight of the cameras. Doubtful, as Mycroft Holmes seemed to have eyes everywhere. Moriarty emerged, sitting on the park bench next to her, two coffees in hand. She ignored his offer, instead opting to look away and try to focus.

"You will do it of course…stupid sentimental woman." His voice took on a mocking tone.

Molly resisted the urge to imitate him, "How?"

"How did I know—"

"No, how will I die?" Molly bit back the insult that she drew close to actually saying, but she was pretty sure he knew she was about to call him an idiot.

He smirked, gesturing towards the camera he had his back to and the children playing on the swings "Well that's the glory of it; you get to choose, Molly Hooper. You get to choose exactly how you die, as long as there's no one there to watch."

"Why not?"

"I don't want anyone to describe to Sherlock your facial expressions as being more akin to fear rather than pain—and it has to be pain, Molly Hooper." Moriarty gave a giggle. Molly in turn resisted the urge to shudder.

"What about cameras?"

"My boys will black them out ahead of time. Don't even think about trying to get away. If your body is not on a slab when _Felix _comes by, then the deal's off." He sneered, "I'll be checking too."

"Fifteen million pounds—"

"He will suddenly receive a combination of cash, new accounts, grants, an unusually large life insurance claim from you, and a large sum from a patron of the arts." Moriarty cut her off, "Don't worry, everything is in place, Miss Hooper."

"The only reason I'm bothering to think you're telling the truth is that you actually followed through with the cabby's family."

"The money will insure that Felix's involvement will cease to exist after this. I'm assuming he'll probably run off somewhere people don't know him and start up under a different name or something. He'll forget you in no time. That's the thing about those street tramps, Molly Hooper; they just don't got the loyalty." He giggled, poking her nose, "So what are you going to do?"

* * *

1 Hour After

The first thing Sherlock did was tear through Molly's locker, looking for any possibility, as it was oddly untouched by her friend—Felix—why would she have been friends with a man like him? He filed the information under 'suspicious' and continued wrecking her locker, finding nothing of consequence except—except a note written clearly in Molly's gentle script, calmly with a time and date—four minutes after he had blown up at her—and he found himself slowly opening it.

_Moriarty is back and I don't blame you xMolly_

_Laptop password: rT24drstb613sA_

This note did nothing to quell the—guilt, yes precisely, it was guilt gnawing at him as he examined her room in his mind palace, a room with an off white door and only the label 'Molly' on it and he found himself unable to move as John pried the crumpled note from his grasp and read it, his eyes widening.

"Do you think she—"

"She wouldn't have thrown herself in front of a train of her own volition." Sherlock growled, "She knew the likelihood of cameras in the lockers was low, knew I would go through here, and this—this is her real note."

* * *

6 Hours Before

Molly paced back and forth while on her shift, despite the fact that she had plenty of things she could have been doing, all she could think about was death and dying and money and what it meant to really truly be dead. She also, oddly enough, wondered who would take care of her cat. Felix was allergic and would probably abandon ship in the coming months but—but that wasn't the concern now, was it? She was going to die, she was really going to die, and she, for her life of her could not figure out a way out. There was no way out, nothing short of a miracle could save her.

* * *

3 Hours Before.

Molly's teeth were chattering in her mouth and her hands were shaking so much that she dropped a petri dish, much to Sherlock's displeasure. He had been in a foul mood since his four minute banishment and return. She knew that he was antsy, wondering if this was really Moriarty—confirmed, Molly should mention that at some point—and when he would strike next. Molly stared blankly at the shattered dish, feeling the air in the room suddenly become very stifling.

"Molly, I had assumed you weren't completely useless, but judging by your current state, you're upset by something and it's affecting your work."

"W-would it kill you to ask?" She mumbled.

"I didn't catch that."

"Would. It. Kill. You. To. Ask. Me. What's. Wrong. Like. A. Normal. Person?" Molly annunciated every word carefully for the consulting detective.

"Frankly, I don't care what's wrong; I just wish you could actually be competent for once."

At least she now knew that her cat would be in the safe hands of her neighbor. She addressed that in a video she made, leaving it on her desktop. A woman like Molly would leave a note after all. That was different though. While she pretended to sulk in the locker room, she scrawled a note and threw it into her locker beneath one of her spare lab coats. Hopefully her real note would not be intercepted.

* * *

2 Hours Before

Molly paced back and forth along the train platform, trying to get a little warmed up. It was only a couple minutes before the next train would come racing down the tracks and she was utterly terrified. Beside her, she had placed her bag where it could easily be found, knowing that an identification would be easily made. As promised, when Molly looked up at the cameras surrounding her, they were all manually blacked out. How convenient. No one would see her contemplating life before the midnight train before she threw herself in front of it. But that was when she saw her.

Another woman, down past a payphone and a few columns, paced in front of the map, tearing at her hair, stomping out of her elegant—Christopher Louboutin, pretty and easily identifiable, but impractical and way out of Molly's self-imposed budget—shoes. Molly found herself gravitating towards this woman, somehow coming to the conclusion that she was planning on doing precisely the same thing. It was just her luck to have another jumper trying to butt in on her (albeit forced) suicide. The time ticked down in her head as she drew closer about to put a hand on her shoulder to calm the woman when unexpectedly, she turned around and Molly saw—herself. It was a woman with a face exactly like hers, down to the nose, and hair that was colored a bit darker and quite a bit neater, but it was the same grain. The copy's lined and puffy eyes were dull and unhappy, barely registering Molly, and oddly enough she wasn't surprised to see a woman with a face exactly like her own.

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but the train came, and she could only watch as her doppelganger flung herself in front of it. Everything screeched to a stop as the doppelganger's body was tossed to the front of the tracks like a rag doll. For a moment, Molly stood there stunned. But then she remembered her predicament, her missed opportunity, the covered cameras and…oh.

* * *

Present

Molly Hooper stood before a hotel she had never seen before and was greeted by a doorman who she apparently had a long conversation with about London's pollution.

* * *

One Minute After

Most genius plans took time to develop; some years of careful planning, but every once in a while, a person could be struck with a most extraordinary idea that simply worked. Molly didn't have much time to marvel on the plan as she rushed to take off her flats, grab the doppelganger's purse and shoes and ran into the lady's room. There, Molly took down her hair and tossed her coat into the bin, throwing a wad of paper towels over it. In a stall, she applied lipstick she found in the woman's purse carefully—bright red, a shade Molly only dared to have on once—and some eyeliner, heavier than she would have made it. Her shirt was plain and green and wholly unimaginative—a very un Molly like gift from a well-meaning Felix. Quickly she rifled through the purse some more discovering its contents.

More makeup than Molly had owned in the past year.

Two cell phones, one of which was a burner—suspicious, but useful.

Seven hundred in cash—useful

A wallet with an ID—who was Elizabeth Childs and why did she look exactly like her?—A question for later—

A passport—She was Canadian?

A hotel key card—tourist, no a couple notes and texts from her boyfriend, he was there for work and she was along for the ride.

A couple voicemails, he was worried—the other mobile had three missed calls—not her problem not yet.

…Felix! Wait! The clothes—if Sherlock or Moriarty saw the clothes then this would be for nothing. She slipped on the shoes and undid a couple buttons on her shirt before emerging. The woman who came out of the stall looked very little like the woman who came in. Molly suddenly looked quite a bit like this Elizabeth Childs, the heels holding her to a new height, the lipstick making her mouth look much larger, and the eyeliner making her eyes less buggish. She shuddered and proceeded to walk out of the loo with head slightly bent; focusing on her phone as she was walking in order to avoid any cameras that might not have been blacked out—at least she could say that dealing with Sherlock had been a proper education.

* * *

Present

Unbeknownst to her mourning friends, Molly Hooper sat in her hotel room—No Elizabeth Childs did, not Molly Hooper, Molly Hooper was dead. Luckily her iPad (passwords to everything in notes on phone, Elizabeth Childs made Molly Hooper look like a genius) had loads of videos of Elizabeth—Beth—Molly corrected herself—and presumably her boyfriend talking to each other—his name was Paul he worked at a firm, Molly could do this, just to get out of the country mainly, the money would help, even without the money she could skate by as Beth until hopefully—until Sherlock beat Moriarty. Molly could only hope that Sherlock learned his lesson about playing with his food.

Until then, Molly had a few things to do in the few hours she had before Paul returned and they went to Canada—together. This was an odd thought. Molly never went travelling with a boyfriend before…then again, she never took a suicide victim's identity and ran with it. All of this was a learning experience.

"You're damn right." Beth on the screen said as she was practicing for her marathon—marathon? The woman did marathons? Shit, Molly might actually have to get into shape.

"You're d-damn, you're damn—" She practiced it as she colored her hair a shade darker (what sort of obsessive woman brings a dye kit with her on a trip? She probably didn't trust London's salons…fair point) "You're damn—you're damn right. You're damn right!" Molly declared almost gleefully, moving on to every other phrase that Beth Childs uttered.

Everything was going fine until—disaster.

"Look Beth." Paul's voice came through the speaker, as Molly tried to pack her scrambled brains into one place and simply keep from outright panicking, "The meeting's gonna go on for longer than expected a couple days longer, since we're having a hard time coming to an agreement—"

"Ah damn." Molly had no idea what this meant. Did this mean they would have to linger longer than she would want to? Long enough for Moriarty to figure her out?

It seemed to be an appropriate response, "Yeah and I know you're kinda bored here, so I think you should go ahead and go home."

"Oh okay."

"Love you."

"Yeah, you too." Molly replied distractedly, her accent almost slipping as she hung up the phone, her mind already rushing ahead to everything else she had to do before she hopped on that morning flight. The pink mobile that she previously ignored rang. Molly ignored it and called Felix's mobile from the burner "Felix. Felix it's me—"

"Oh thank—"

"Shut up and listen to me. Get my clothes before Sherlock Holmes comes. He'll know right away they're not mine. The pathologist will cut them away from my body. Get them and burn them. Collect your money, wait a week, go to somewhere random and then go to Toronto Canada. Tell no one. Act distraught but distracted by the money."

"Yes, Wendi, I've got the next shipment in." Felix's voice lifted and was suddenly quite flirty, indicating another presence, "Sorry, love, gotta trot." He hung up, and Molly hoped and prayed that first off, the signal would be difficult to trace, and secondly no one would bother to try and intercept that message even if they could.

Molly paced back and forth, waiting for her hair to dry as she packed up her clothing. She could do this; she had to. It was only until Moriarty was really and truly defeated. Then she could come back. Did Sherlock experience such fear and anxiety at the prospect of not returning for a long time? Probably not. Very little phased him and when it did, it didn't leak through to the surface all at once…although she had seen him once before when he was very distressed…Molly thought that she might be having a taste of how that felt. She took in one final shuddering breath as she walked into the airport terminal as Beth Childs, a woman dressed with class and taste that Molly Hooper didn't possess. She wasn't Molly Hooper anymore.

**Ha! First chapter of my first ever official fanfiction! Done!**


	2. A Moral Being

**I got excited so a bit earlier than a week! So I kind of lied then.**

**It's a bit odd that I only feel guilty about lying when I get caught. Maybe I should abstain from lying for a day and see how well that turns out (cue mass chaos and confusion) okay so maybe not…**

Molly sat on the airplane in business class, wearing a dark and sleek suit—what on Earth did Beth do for a living?—her hands trembling slightly as she obtained a glass of water and leaned slightly against the window. She jumped as a man slid in next to her—probably harmless, but she could never truly tell. James Moriarty seemed harmless at one point. He seemed safe. So she gave a small waning smile to the man and took a sip.

"Didn't mean to startle you there, love."

She worked up her accent, it was getting better with practice, "Oh no, it's fine. Sorry."

"American then?"

"Canadian actually."

"Can't seem to spot the difference to save my life."

Molly grinned, "Oh that's easy. We apologize a lot, put gravy on our fries, and really the best indicator is that we call that—" She gestured towards the loo near the back, "—the washroom."

"Oh thanks uhm—"

"Beth." Molly held out her hand to shake.

"Anthony."

"Nice to meet you." For the first time in her life, Molly decided to be completely and utterly rude to the attractive stranger sitting next to her. Beth Childs was a woman with a rich boyfriend, after all, not a desperate little pathologist who panics about her biological clock despite having no wish to reproduce. Molly was also an Un-Person in the way, no longer able to be Molly Hooper, but not quite Beth Childs either. She would have to find out why exactly that was, once she knew Moriarty and Sherlock were distracted and a world away.

* * *

Funerals had a tendency to bore Sherlock. He had no religious affiliations, he didn't understand the point of a bunch of sad people gathering around a corpse or a pile of ashes, and it made it incredibly easy to figure out the idiotic culprits. Molly's funeral, however, was different. Molly always struck him as the type to have few friends and fewer family members, but he found that there were so many present that many were regulated to standing in the back. Lestrade and every member of the police force that ever interacted with her were there, several nurses, interns, doctors, all sat in a large clump and then there were the people that looked quite a bit like her friend Felix Dawkins, all lower class, less educated, but all quite sympathetic. It was a large turnout for what Felix said would have to be, 'the quick sort of affair someone as modest as Molly would like.' He still couldn't figure out her connection to him—let alone a deep lifelong friendship.

"Molly was my best friend." Felix sat down beside him after saying a few short words, answering the question before it could be asked, "We were in care together after her Dad died. She was eleven. All I saw at first was a little middle class brat that only had one thing ever go wrong in her life…but she didn't linger on it. In fact, she rarely ever seemed sad at all, just a cheerful little girl with a sick fascination with death. And she was smart, so smart…. Listen our foster parents—they weren't kind. At all. The lady was spending all our care money on drinks and her husband had a nasty habit of knocking us around."

Sherlock's fist clenched at the idea of someone hitting Molly, she didn't deserve something like that for a moment, "Go on."

Felix took a deep, shuddering breath, "One night he tried to—well rape me I suppose, I dunno what was going through his head, but Molly stabbed him in the neck with some scissors. The lady lied, putting up this great big story and I decided that since Molly was smarter, and Molly was kinder, and Molly did it to save me, that I'd take the blame."

"Hence your criminal record."

"Yes. Molly was furious…but we've been best friends ever since. You wanted to know."

"And how did you know that?"

"Everyone wants to know." Felix gestured towards himself and flipped his hair, "How a hottie like me could be friends with a smarty like her."

* * *

Molly absentmindedly sniffed the soap in the loo—washroom—washroom—it was sandalwood, nothing like the lavender scents she used. It was yet another thing about herself she had to strip away, leading her to step into the shower of Beth Child's townhouse, spending a long time under scalding hot water, trying to wash away an old life, and trying to think of all the ways that Beth could be identified as herself and not Molly. If Molly had been the pathologist on duty, she would have run prints simply to be thorough, but it would only be those of the UK and Europe. They would realize something was messed up with her on record fingerprints, and still cite a positive identification. She didn't even know if DNA would show enough of a difference; obviously she and Beth were from the same stock.

* * *

1 Minute Before

It took Sherlock three hours to figure out all that he had said wrong and to figure out that he still didn't know why Molly was upset. She really wasn't that clumsy of an individual and she seemed...terrified. He came to the conclusion that he should apologize and gather information a moment later and spent the thirty minute cab ride to her flat trying to formulate it. Something acceptable had come to mind by the time that he made it to Molly's flat, but when he knocked, he got no response. Sherlock assumed that she was asleep, and decided to pick the lock to come in. it was vacant obvious by the lack of coat hanging over the chair and the unfed cat rubbing against Sherlock's legs. Sherlock looked around before clicking the "Play" button on her answering machine after finding four messages.

_"Oi! Molly! You're no picking up your mobile! Answer I need to talk to you!"_

_"Molly, you were supposed to show up an hour ago, where are you? You really scare me when you do this, you know. If you're sleeping, I'm going to kill you tomorrow. You aren't seriously going to do it are you? You're really psyching me out"_

_"…Okay Molly, you never go this long without even a text. I've called you eight times! I'm going to get a bunch of acne from this! I feel the redness! I feel the bumps on my skin rising."_

_"Shite, shite, bloody shite, Molly pick up right now. Just pick up right now, I need to hear your voice. God FUCKING damn it , pick up the bloody phone!"_

Sherlock was most shocked by the panic the man was displaying in the last of the messages. He was in his twenties or thirties, obviously gay and from Brixton, and particularly familiar with Molly. Before he could ponder it further, he received a call from Lestrade, "Sherlock...Molly Hooper has committed suicide. She threw herself in front of a train."

For one single moment in time, everything in Sherlock's mind raced to a screeching halt. He didn't know how he got to the hospital (Logically, anyone with a few brain cells to rub together could hail a taxi, walk down a familiar path to the morgue and see—see her laying there with blank eyes like she was just another body, just another mystery. He stood there for a long time, aware of, but unable to process the whispers of Anderson and Donavan. At some point, he would be brave enough to draw those from memory, but for the moment, that part of his mind palace remained darkened.

* * *

Molly sorted through the clothes she had. For the most part, they seemed posh but boring, tending towards dark and drab colors like gray and black. A lot of Beth Child's clothing were quite suitable for racing about the city, with low heeled and practical shoes outnumbering the designer heels. She searched through, looking for more clues, trying to act like Sherlock in a way, looking for the tiniest of details. Like Molly, Beth seemed to be a bit particular about cleaning, but didn't have the taste for brightly colored jumpers. There was a picture of her and Paul on the refrigerator, finally giving her more than a blurry picture of his face to his name. He was cute, but not quite her type, with blond hair trimmed short and a general look about him that screamed military of some kind. Maybe it was just that he reminded her of John.

Sighing, Molly sank to the floor right there in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey next to her. What was she doing? She couldn't do something so simple as talk to Sherlock without stumbling the first couple years of her existence, why the hell did she think she could pull off making him—and everyone else she knew—think she was dead? For all she knew, Felix could be a worse actor than she thought, and she had actually been given away right away. But if that were true, something would have happened. Molly was sure of that. Moriarty wouldn't allow her to believe that she had outsmarted him for long. He would hate to give anyone that sort of surge of superior feeling over him.

She hoped.

* * *

"Sherlock, I think you should try going outside." John was worried. Sherlock had a case and yet all he was doing was sitting there, simply staring at the wall. This wasn't the time for the supposed and totally not high functioning sociopath to break down like any other man would. John knew he was being selfish, but he had a child on the way and he wanted the Moriarty problem to end as quickly as possible especially after…Molly.

Yes, Molly was the reason for Sherlock's almost complete lack of action, John knew this. At first, Sherlock had been in a mad frenzy, but then it seemed that once he realized that nothing would change the fact that Molly's body was sitting in a drawer in the morgue he shut down. There was no searching for Moriarty, or trying to figure out how to defeat him, there was just silence. John found it absolutely maddening and so…so oddly normal.

"Sherlock, when's the last time you ate?"

No response.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? I need you to tell me—"

"She is a competent pathologist." Nothing but the bare minimum of movement from Sherlock's mouth told John that he had actually spoken out loud, and that John hadn't just imagined it.

"Yes, Sherlock, she was the best, that's why you worked with her." John nodded, settling on the sofa beside Sherlock.

"Therefore, what I told her, or at least what I implied was a lie." Oh, _that _had been the last thing he said to her.

"She knows—knew—how you can be."

"A replacement will be nearly impossible to find."

"A replacement pathologist or replacement Molly?"

"A replacement Molly would be impossible." Sherlock snapped.

"Yes—yes of course—"

"Molly Hooper is too cheerful, she has terrible taste in clothing and men alike, she spends most evenings home alone with her cat and she either says too much or too little, she panics at inopportune times, and she decided to go out and find a fiancé that bore a striking resemblance to myself! She is annoying!"

"Sherlock—the engagement's been off, you know that—and what does that have to do with—?"

"John! I do not need food or comfort or whatever you've come here to thrust upon me, I am thinking! I am thinking! I need to stop him before—but it's too late at the same time all I can do from here is damage control and he's ruined _everything. _Things were finally going to go back precisely where they want them before!"

After being on the receiving end of a bit more shouting, John left, realizing a couple of things as he slipped into the taxi.

Sherlock refused to speak about Molly in the past tense. (Denial: Confirmed)

Sherlock was obsessing over Molly's engagement. (Suspicion: Confirmed)

Sherlock was definitely going to do something about Moriarty, and there wouldn't be games this time.

John didn't know what this meant. He doubted he would like the man Sherlock would become without him to keep him company or without Molly. It was heartbreaking, really, seeing how close they had become. James Moriarty had obviously seen this. More than ever, John simply wanted to shoot him in the head himself.-

Three Weeks Before

Molly and Sherlock sat in the lab in a companionable silence. She was doing her supremely dull paperwork while Sherlock was working on some sort of experiment that she hadn't had the proper chance to look at yet. While Sherlock knew that even Molly had some boundaries when it came to the lab, she still wanted to make sure that the likelihood of something blowing up (literally or otherwise) was relatively low. Her superiors still didn't like the idea of Molly being Sherlock's go to pathologist after the whole dead-not-dead incident. She tried not to let Sherlock know how much trouble she would be in if it weren't for his brother, but she was pretty sure he knew or didn't really care to know anyway.

"I'm making coffee." Molly stood up, stretching her hand, trying to shake the soreness from it, "Want any?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt that she supposed was a yes and Molly left, returning with both. She placed his coffee next to him and returned to her stool, picking up where she left off. Oddly enough, this was more comfortable than anything she ever did with Tom, bordering on the absolutely shameless openness she shared with Felix. What drew her to Sherlock was the way he didn't flinch when she spoke of gathering tissue samples. He didn't care that she could chatter all day on the subject of stab wounds but could barely string together a sentence in the form of small talk. Sadly, he didn't care about her either. Not really anyway, certainly not in the way that mattered. But it was still comfortable, sitting there.

If Molly could, she would have times where she didn't speak for days.

* * *

The pink burner phone was ringing again. Its tone drove Molly up the wall. For the most part, she could ignore it, but after a while, she knew she would have to pick it up. After all, until Felix could arrive with the money (if he got it at all) Molly had to be Beth. This included all of Beth's problems—like whatever led her to suicide. Slowly she picked it up.

"Did you meet with the German?"

"Huh?"

"Damn it Beth, what did she say did you get the briefcase?"

"I uhm—"

"So you didn't get it?" The voice sounded so much like Molly's but with a different accent that Molly couldn't quite place. It was either American or Canadian—definitely not British or Irish, she would be able to tell that one right away.

"No, no I didn't—"

Suddenly the line went dead.

What the hell had Molly gotten herself into?


	3. To Waste One Hour Of Time

**Rest assured I'm not dead! **

**So sorry, life got in the way and all of that jazz. I'm actually starting to do crap for my future like actually fill out applications for scholarships and stuff. My greatest fear about college will be that I will not have time to write.**

Molly found it strange pretending to be Beth. It was like slipping into a different skin, one she wasn't entirely familiar with, but everyone else seemed to go on with their day. She knew it would be odd if Beth Child's credit and debit card activities ceased to be, but she didn't know her pin and only had two of her passwords. She didn't have anything on a newly opened account with a large sum of money in it and had to rectify that. Slowly and deliberately she dressed to impress, taking a look at herself in the mirror before speaking.

"Hello, Steven, how are you?"

Suddenly she was in the man's office, requesting a change in pin. _Somehow, _it had been demagnetized. Molly wasn't the sort to make a hypothesis on how this could have happened, but Steven was pleased enough to do so. She fished a key out of her bag and he was delightful enough to give her access to her safety deposit box. He even gave her a new account set up with completely different passwords and payment system, despite the fact that it was against the rules to do so without a load of paperwork, but she flashed a smile and offered to sponsor his next charity run. After that, she even managed to get half of it in cash—just in case. It felt strange, manipulating the innocent people around her.

* * *

"Hey Beth! Beth!" Who was this man? Darker complexion, older, cop car—shit, shit, shit, cop car? A cruiser? Molly squeaked as he manhandled her, tossing her into the car. She was grasping for an explanation, looking around when she finally found a piece of paper.

Arthur Bell.

Art.

He had been calling her constantly.

Oh.

"You left the country?!" He practically shouted, "They thought you were going to make a run for it!"

"No! No Art, of course not!"

"Then why'd you go?"

"Paul had a meeting and—"

"Didn't want to leave your tweaker ass?"

"I had permission!" Molly replied, remembering the strange notes attached to Beth's passport. It had frightened her at first, being stopped unexpectedly in each airport, but she realized in between that she was technically under investigation—apparently Beth Childs had shot a civilian…oh and Beth Childs was a cop. Molly only had a couple hours before Art was grabbing her on the street and she found herself in the car with him. There was no time to research, no time to prepare, Molly was grasping for straws just to answer his questions as they drove to a police station. She quickly requested to go to the washroom, and paced the length of the room for a moment. What the hell was she going to do? This was deep shit if there was such a thing. Wildly, Molly considered the fact that she could add "Impersonating a cop" to the steadily growing list of felonies and misdemeanors she was committing to save her own skin.

She stared at the soap dispenser, listing the ingredients of common public washroom soap in her mind as she reached for it, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it back to drink.

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth. Felix Dawkins had left the country, just as predicted. Mycroft traced his movement to Panama, where he stayed for a week before he moved on to Toronto. Toronto made sense. It had a good art scene, was fairly well priced, and he did have a foster mother there—Molly and Felix's foster mother. His throat closed up at the thought, however he waved it to the wayside. There was no time to do that. He was waiting for Moriarty to emerge to do something. There was nothing he could do for the man to initiate the game. When that happened, he wouldn't play; he would kill him. He couldn't afford to lose anyone else.

(Of course, that was completely unrealistic as Moriarty probably devised a contingency for that, nonetheless, everyone would be safe. Sherlock would make sure of that.)

* * *

Already feeling queasy, Molly walked into the room full of rather frightening looking people, all in power suits, all ready to ask her what she did—and oh God, she didn't know. Slowly, Molly sank to her seat.

"State your name for the records."

Molly leaned forward, about to say 'Beth Childs' when instead she threw up, her sick getting everywhere. She found that Art was herding her away somewhere and soon she was tossed in a room with a psychiatrist. Molly knew her type almost immediately. She also immediately knew where all the prescriptions Beth Childs had in her cabinet were from. Felix always referred to psychiatrists like her as "Dr. Feelgoods" because they practically handed out the meds like candy. Molly herself was actually guilty of this. As a doctor, she could write prescriptions—even though she was just a pathologist, she had to take the same General Medicine courses as everyone else—to anyone she deemed necessary.

Molly paid for her medical school debts and specialization doing this as well as the down payment on Felix's chop shop. She had forgotten about putting this on the list. It was yet another criminal offense to add to the ever growing tally she had going in her head. To think, Mrs. S thought she had been the good kid.

* * *

James Moriarty sat in Sherlock's flat, on Sherlock's sofa, holding a picture of Sherlock's late pathologist. It was a small wonder that Sherlock didn't go ahead and rip off the man's head for all he'd done. It would have made everything quick, short, and slightly less painful than it already was. Yet, Sherlock was sure that this time around, James Moriarty would have something to prevent him from drastic action.

"They will be able to act on my orders even if I die." Moriarty grinned, able to deduce Sherlock the way he did others. It annoyed him to no end—which was a reason why he tried a bit harder to keep his observations to himself. His mind immediately leapt to the day Molly slapped him—how he announced the ending of her engagement while he was still high with every part of his mind feeling like it had been tossed in a background. Sherlock winced. "Thinking about her are we?" Moriarty held up the photograph, "She was a pretty one, eh?"

"Name your game and your stakes."

"You're playing then?"

"I do not think I have a choice in the matter."

"Good. Well, I suppose now that this _distraction _is gone you'll be more motivated to play it like a good sport this time around."

Sherlock didn't tell him that Molly was still a distraction. He didn't wish to tell him that there was something off about her body. After Moriarty left, he regressed into his mind palace and began sorting through the day that he saw Molly Hooper on the slab. Finally Anderson and Donavan's whispers had returned to him, but he still couldn't look at Molly objectively despite all the information being there. He thought it was too quick to jump to the conclusion that it was all an elaborate trick, but that tiny bit of sentimental hope crept in on him nonetheless. It wasn't good to try and linger on such thoughts, especially when he had Moriarty's first clue, and especially when Sally Donavan pitied him.

_"He actually looks sad."_

* * *

It was very tempting, but way too soon.

Molly remembered sitting on the playground growing up. To be exact, she sat on the swings, swaying back and forth gently as she watched everyone else play. She never really felt like she was a part of everything. Her family moved a lot, giving her plenty of chances to start over, but each time there was something about her that put people off her behavior. When her dad died, she was tossed into care and tossed around like a hot potato—eventually landing with Felix again. This time, it was different. She could tell from the start as she walked into a flat with faded blue walls and plenty of rock and roll albums. Mrs. S immediately laid down the law, proposing strict curfews and little room for protest. The first night, Felix and Molly thought they would be completely miserable, however Molly figured out how lucky they were first. Mrs. S spent her own money on them as well as the care money; she knew three languages and could help them with their maths, and she was actually kind enough to help Molly figure out bra sizes. For once, Molly felt loved for who she was and not for what she was supposed to be.

This did not, however, mean that Molly could barge into Mrs. S's Toronto house after six years of only communicating through letters. It was then that she realized that Moriarty had managed to fuck up again. If he had known about Mrs. S and Kira—no. No he doesn't therefore they will be safe and sound, especially now that Molly is dead. Molly somewhat regretted not taking the letters with her. She loved getting them from Kira especially. Her block letters and simply phrases had recently developed a better look and less spelling errors. Kira was a secret. Not even Sherlock knew about her. Molly hid the letters from Mrs. S and Kira among her receipts so that no one could state boredom as a reason for knowing about them. They had decided to remain separate, and separate they remained. Molly lasted another week, only distracted from going by new arrivals.

Paul was still out of town. The meeting got another extension, but he sent his friend to check on her from time to time; Cody, his name was. This coincided well with Felix finally arriving in all of his gusto, flinging his arms around her neck like he really thought she had been dead. He must not have really believed it, not really.

"You're going to have to talk to Mrs. S. It would make sense for you to want to reconnect and all of that crap and—"

"Molly, just tell me this. How the hell did you do this? Does he know? Is this some sort of sick game?"

"You know I've never been fond of games." Molly stared down into her glass before taking a sip. Beth and Paul kept good scotch. "I—well there was a girl who threw herself in front of the train. One who looked just like me. I didn't really think about it, I just ran with it. The lie got bigger and bigger and now I'm here." Molly didn't mention the strange phone calls or anything. She assumed that there was no big reason to dive too much deeper in Beth's life if they were just going to tear down, torch, and leave anyway.

"Fifteen million." Felix shook his head, "It took a while, but I managed to make the sum almost untraceable."

"Good. Nothing too big ticket, just some new papers, new identities, new everything. We could go to Montreal or New York. Or somewhere rural. As long as we don't draw attention to ourselves we can wait out Moriarty's downfall."

"You think Sherlock can do it? He did a shit job of it last time, you know."

"Of course he can do it." Molly replied automatically, forgetting herself, her accent returning to normal, "Oh…here I thought I wasn't forgetting it."

"More practice, darling." Felix leaned over and tapped her cheek.

* * *

Two days later, Molly stood on the doorstep, waiting anxiously for Mrs. S to open the door.

"Holy mother of God—you're not dead."

"And you said I had a habit of stating the obvious." Molly flashed a small smile, "May I come in?"

Moments later, the pair sat across from each other at a table, and Molly suddenly felt as if she was fourteen again and being interrogated for having a fag (not hers, but it didn't matter much to the woman) in her jumper pocket. Slowly, Molly leaned back, crossing her arms, "How's Kira?"

"She's doing well—I hadn't told her."

"Good. I hate for her to think her own mother's dead."

"She thinks you're her sister, remember?"

"Oh and you're her dear mummy and everything's fine and peachy, yeah?" Molly snorted, "I—I'm glad I kept my distance now. This was for the best."

"They told me you threw yourself in front of a train, Molly. I knew you couldn't have; you're too tough for that. Tell me what's going on, smart girl. Who are you running from?"

"An enemy of a friend got it in mind that I should die. I decided that was unfavorable. So everyone else I know thinks I'm dead, they don't know Kira exists—thanks for that, by the way, my entire life has been ruined and built up again, and oh! I'm pretending to be a cop."

"Molly—"

"Yeah, I know, I fucked up—"

"I'm glad you're all right."

* * *

If it were up to Sherlock, he would announce that Mary picked an incredibly inconvenient time to go into labor; however, John made him very aware that his opinion was not welcome and would most likely be met with a greeting similar to his return. This left him sitting in the hall, watching as nurses and aids traveled by, carrying bits and pieces of their lives. Before the fall, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated to leave. He would have probably would have drifted down to visit Molly and see if she had anything interesting for him. Or, in this case, he would have gathered more information from his homeless network and dare he say it—Mycroft. Sherlock scowled. Apparently with this new abundance of sentiment, he was incapable of removing Molly from his memory with any surgical precision. She couldn't be deleted and always emerged at the most inopportune times.

The doctor that just rushed by had a cat that was the same color as Molly's.

A woman visiting her sister had the exact same shade of hair.

Another woman had that same way of looking at her feet when she walked, as if afraid the floor would suddenly disappear—irrelevant.

Sherlock thought back to every detail he had figured out about Molly over the years. Usually, his mind palace made connections for him, but sometimes he had to sink deep within it and actively create passageways for more vague connections to be made. Three weeks before Molly threw herself on the tracks at Moriarty's command (no doubt friends and family were threatened. Sherlock cursed her bleeding heart—sentiment killed her) he noticed something new in their companionable silence. He never asked her about it, but the fact kept getting thrown in his face the more and more he learned about pregnancy and motherhood.

Molly's hips showed signs of having a child years ago, but nothing else about her seemed like she was a mother. She would have mentioned having a kid and would have often gone home and—oh. It was yet another quiet surprise about Molly, almost enough to distract him from the fact that his eyes had been drawn to parts of her other than her face and he couldn't use deduction as an excuse for it.

* * *

8 years before

Molly hadn't wanted to get pregnant. She was twenty-five, still in medical school, working long and hard towards her degree and specialization when the little plus sign told her that she was pregnant. At the time, it didn't seem like that great of a problem. While proud that she overcame being the care girl who got knocked up in high school, she still retained a great deal of apprehension towards her ability to raise a child. The months went by swimmingly and almost exactly at the nine month mark, Kira Marshall (after the idiot father) was born via cesarean section and promptly put in the care of Mrs. S. who later adopted her. While Molly was fiercely protective of the child, she really didn't think she had the maternal instincts that came along with it, nor the time.

When Mrs. S. decided to go live with her sister in Canada, Molly had no choice but to let them go, despite rather liking the title of 'aunt Molly'

* * *

Molly climbed out of the shower, pressing water from her hair with the towel when she heard the notable click of the front door being opened.

"Beth?"

Paul.

Shit.

Molly looked down at her phone and found that she received three texts and four missed calls while she was in the shower. She turned around and entered the closet trying not to cringe. This was a man who was the boyfriend of the woman she was impersonating. He would know Beth Childs more than anyone else. If anyone could tear down her illusion—aside from Sherlock or Mycroft—it was definitely this man. She turned around, smiling.

"Hey, I wasn't expecting you til tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, you know how unpredictable those meetings can be. Did you make your hearing? I told you you'd be able to get through on time—"

"Yeah—yeah I choked. Like bad."

"Bad?"

"I threw up on them."

"Oh." Molly moved past him, but on the way, Paul took a lock of her hair, "Your hair it's different."

"Yeah, I got it caught."

"It's longer."

Molly pushed down the bubbling panic and pretty much flung herself at him, knocking him back against the bed, kissing him as she straddled his lap. His response was at first confused and awkward—Molly panicked at the thought that he wasn't adequately distracted from his thought processes—but he soon embraced her, pulling on her hair. Her clothes soon followed—_too rough_, the part of her that was screaming that this was wrong and immoral yelled at her—_well it's working isn't it? _A darker, more sinister train that sounded suspiciously similar to a mixture of Sherlock and her teenage self snapped right back.

**So I feel like the way I worked Kira in was a bit thin, but I still wanted her (she's adorable) and she'll be making an appearance soon.**

**Coming up: The German.**


	4. Those Who Know Little

Present-Molly

Molly got up before Paul did, showering and shrugging on an unremarkable tank top and shorts before stuffing a bag. She had to go out, figure out what the hell she needed to get, who was on the other end of the line. She had a feeling that she knew who it was—at least in general. The chances of seeing a woman identical to herself tossing herself in front of a train—and then get a call from another woman who sounded exactly like her—she had a feeling it was something that most definitely wasn't normal. Cloning maybe? That was a strange thought, wasn't it? Being a human clone. Apparently no one had ever done it before, especially with the ethical issues that were tied to it. _As well as the dangerous side effects of being a copy._

A copy.

Was that all Molly was?

Well she wouldn't know without all the information. Logically, she shouldn't care. She shouldn't care about the similarities or the possibility of the improbable. She should tear down and torch, taking Mrs. S, Kira, and Felix with her in one sweep. New names and new lives, far away from the lies of Moriarty and Beth Childs and the briefcase mentioned—but that couldn't be possible. Molly was, after all, a scientist at heart. Scientists were known for their intelligence and great discoveries, however they were also known for their curiosity. Being the lab rat? Clones? Rare identical triplets or quadruplets? It was too good for a proper scientist to resist.

Sherlock—Present

There had been no activity from Moriarty. Nothing. It was as if the man wasn't alive at all. Sherlock was impatient. He wanted to get this over with. It didn't feel like a game to him anymore, it felt more like his mission of dismantling the web. Obviously he had missed several crucial details, and those details had cost Molly her life, but even then, that one didn't seem right either. Something wasn't right about her body at the morgue. It was her face, it was her hair—recently dyed a shade darker, but her hair nonetheless—but something wasn't right and it was going to bother him until he figured it out.

He needed to smoke.

He needed to drink.

He needed—

Absolutely not. Definitely not after Molly's reaction. He smiled fondly and winced at the same time, remembering the slapping.

Present—Molly

She was in the back of the car when the woman got in, wearing a horrendously furry coat and a pair of shades despite the poor lighting. When she took them off, Molly wasn't exactly surprised to see that this face—while with dyed short red hair—was a mirror image of her own.

"Beth!" German accent. Bingo. "Why weren't you responding I got the blood samples—"

"I'm not Beth. Beth committed suicide. My name's Molly. Here by mistake. Tell me what the hell is going on, why are you here? What blood samples?"

"Y-you're not Beth."

"No I'm not—"

Molly was cut off by the sound of breaking glass and the sick thud of a bullet hitting flesh and bone. She shrieked, watching as the German fell back into her seat, obviously dead. She ducked down, but nothing occurred. There were no more shots. The German's mobile started ringing. Quickly Molly answered it, "She's dead, the German's dead, she was shot."

"Oh my God it's true somebody's killing us!"

Molly's heartbeat increased steadily as she processed the situation. She was most likely a clone. Another clone came in rambling about a briefcase. This clone was German—international. Presumably another one was on the phone. Someone just assassinated the clone in the back of her car. This car wasn't actually hers, but Beth's, another clone that had committed suicide in the London underground. She was in even deeper shit than the Moriarty situation, and she wasn't even trying.

"Look. I can get rid of the body, but shit—we're going to have to meet—after I get that briefcase."

Present—Sherlock

A woman with rather pale skin and drastic eyebrows sat before John Watson, as Sherlock took a greater interest in studying the web on the wall, trying to figure out where Moriarty might strike next. She was an on again off again smoker and alcoholic, had lost a child within the past ten years, and she was quite wealthy, resulting in a plated diamond necklace, and gently used but excellent quality clothing and shoes. She had traveled from Italy, and from the looks of things, traveled with the express intent to speak to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, forgoing even checking into a hotel coming from the airport.

"My-my name is Maria Giordano." The woman spoke slowly, slightly unsure of her English before deciding to sod it and carry on, "I do not mean to trouble you, young man, but there's something I must ask of you."

"Go away." Sherlock spoke at the same time that John said, "Ask away."

The woman nodded, tears pricking her eyes as she pulled a photograph from her purse, "A few years ago my daughter—my dear, dear daughter disappeared. I lost all hope! I thought she was dead! But then…then I saw a picture of her at a wedding. She seemed so happy and I had to come right away, I had to find her." Ms. Giordano gave John the picture.

"I find this utterly tedious—"

"Sherlock, you're going to have to look at this." John interrupted, practically running to Sherlock's perch and stuffing the picture in his hands, "Sherlock look."

Present—Molly

This wasn't the first occasion that Molly thought that her training as a pathologist and her time spent in care could create a lethal combination. She was always the best at the hypothetical how to get away with murder games because she and Sherlock had spent so much time catching the kinks in lesser plans. This accumulated experience led her to a level of quiet confidence in what she was doing. She cut off the hands and burned off the prints, making it impossible to make a proper ID from them. She buried them under a back porch thirteen miles away. Then she cut the jawbone out, scrubbing them off before placing them in her pocket. She would have to dispose the teeth at a later time. She used a shovel to smash the face to an unidentifiable pulp, and then proceeded to dig a hole and bury the rest of the German, alternating between layers of rocks and soil to make it difficult for any animal to dig it up.

The inside of Molly's car was next. She decided to make use of going to a rougher area of Toronto, the sort of place where people looked away and were tight lipped about what they did and didn't see, and she used a practically empty 24 hour car wash. She still wiped it down with other cleaners, years of experience and dating a blood splatter analyst finally paying off. She then smashed her windshield further with a baseball bat, and in the morning hours took it to a different station to get it fixed. Her coat looked fine unless scrutinized closely, which allowed her the time to go and find replacement clothing before she took her coat and stuffed it in a homeless man's fire while he wasn't looking.

Molly was tired. But pressed in her hand was a wallet with a hotel key and some credit cards and in her pocket were some hair and blood samples.

She was going to get that bloody briefcase.

Two months before—Molly

She knew Janine was full of shit. So when Molly went to Sherlock and was stopped by a long slender hand and a smug smirk, Molly already knew that she truly had the upper hand in that conversation, whether Janine knew it or not. No doubt, Janine thought that it would be a part of her fun, to poke at the shy pathologist.

"See the papers?"

"Only after I had put them in the litter box." Molly replied lightly.

"Aren't you going to get upset? Embarrassed? Reprimand me for this?" Janine crossed her arms and did a poor imitation of Molly, "'Oh Janine, you shouldn't have spoken of such—intimate relations with the press.' Please. Give me a break do you know what that—"

"Good on you for getting revenge on the man. He deserves it. That was a low blow, even for Sherlock Holmes and I've known him for years. That means I also know that he'd prefer fucking a corpse to fucking you. Have a nice day."

Present—Molly

Molly had been practicing her statement for hours, going through it like clockwork. Art met her to go over it in a dingy little restaurant.

"Look Beth, you've got to get this right. Both our asses are on the line now and if they realize that you called me—and I put that cell in her hand to cover for your tweaker ass—"

"I've got it under control, Art." Molly hoped so, at least.

Two Months Before—Sherlock

Everything hurt. He knew that being shot wasn't pleasant, and his rather amusing encounter with a vengeful Janine aside, he was bored. Of course, that was when Molly with her shy little footsteps came walking through the door. He had seen her in his mind palace, directing him on what to do. He didn't know she had been such a part of it until then. The hospital had given him time to sift through facts, and there was one fact that practically screamed at him; Molly Hooper held an entire wing in his mind palace.

"You went and got yourself shot." Molly spoke with a slight tremor in her voice, "That is definitely not allowed."

"Sorry." Sherlock said, and he meant it.

Molly gave a little laugh and shook her head, "Might as well buy yourself a t-shirt that says that for all the trouble you cause."

He was forgiven. That was good. He would hate for the person with the most faith in him to never forgive him.

Present—Molly

"I need some help."

"Again?" Felix scowled into his drink.

"I need a hat—and one of those atrocious fur coats you've purchased—I got to pretend I'm the German." Molly affected the accent—it still needed a lot of work, but hopefully this would be a short job."

Molly pulled her hair up into the wide rimmed black hat, put on the coat, and then some designer shades. "How do I look?"

"Wow, Molls, you actually look kind of hot."

The room itself was trashed. Molly had no idea who ripped through it, but they left a strange little doll with choppy red hair similar to German's preferred do. They had been looking for something, tearing it apart in the process and for some reason the bloody telephone kept ringing. Finally, the knocking on the door alerted her that she would have to pay for the room. The nice man was quite a bit like Steven from the bank, nice and unsuspecting. The card was on file and the briefcase was in their storage.

She had nodded when he made a comment about how awesome the party must have been.

Yeah. Sure.

Present-Sherlock

It was Molly at John and Mary's wedding. She was wearing that bright yellow dress, laughing at something Janine was saying, one of Sherlock's favorites—that is if he had favorites. "This is—"

"Her name is Aryanna. She just—didn't come home one day, can you figure out where she is or—"

"I knew this woman." Sherlock replied stiffly, "She died two months ago."

"So she was alive all this time? Oh…oh thank God." The woman clutched at Sherlock's hands, both of them unintentionally wrinkling the photograph, "Thirty-three, that's wonderful! That's seven more years than I thought she had—oh…oh but what was she doing? Why was she here? How did you know her?"

Sherlock shook his head, the word "impossible" echoing through his mind. But then he realized something, "Do you have a picture of her from before? Full body."

Maria nodded vigorously, fishing out a picture of a much younger woman, standing next to a tree as she stared out over a lake. She was happy, smiling carelessly and—she did not look like someone who had been pregnant a year previously. That could not have been Molly Hooper. In that moment, the dots connected. The woman lying on the table could not have been Molly Hooper because she did not bear any signs of having ever carried a child. But what was going on? Where was Molly? Why was there a woman who looked just like her dead?

**Decided that Molly would react a bit differently than Sarah considering Molly's experience with dead bodies, and it also removes a major plot hole in the show...in my humble opinion. Your opinions are greatly appreciated as well which is why there's this lovely box below for reviews!**


End file.
